314.] Such was Queen Sophie's last proposal to Wilhelmina,--night of the 27th of January, 1731, as is computable,--her Majesty to leave for Potsdam on the morrow.

They wept much together that night, but Wilhelmina dexterously evaded the oath, on a religious ground.

Prince of Baireuth, whom Papa may like or may not like, has never yet personally made appearance: who or what will make appearance, or how things can or will turn, except a bad road, is terribly a mystery to Wilhelmina.
What with chagrin and confinement, what with bad diet (for the very diet is bad, quality and quantity alike unspeakable), Wilhelmina sees herself "reduced to a skeleton;" no company but her faithful Sonsfeld, no employment but her Books and Music;--struggles, however, still to keep heart.

One day, it is in February, 1731, as I compute, they are sitting, her Sonsfeld and she, at their sad mess of so-called dinner, in their remote upper story of the Berlin Schloss, tramp of sentries the one thing audible; and were "looking mournfully at one another, with nothing to eat but a soup of salt and water, and a ragout of old bones full of hairs and slopperies [nothing else; that was its real quality, whatever fine name they might give it, says the vehement Princess], we heard a sharp tapping at the window; and started up in surprise, to see what it could be.

It was a raven, carrying in its beak a bit of bread, which it left on the window-sill, and flew away." [Ib.